Reassembling
by Jedi Knight Cheeze
Summary: Take everything. The moments passing you by. The emotions you feel. The people you meet, and the people you miss. String them together. Make something coherent. Put your life back together. Post-Reichenbach drabbles. Slices of life from after the fall.
1. Normal

**These are supposed to be very short vignette-type scenes from the lives of the characters after Reichenbach. Apart they may seem incomplete, but hopefully together they form a picture. Hope you enjoy. :) **

* * *

><p><em>Three weeks<em>

"John? Do you think these therapy sessions are helping?"

The question came out of the blue. They'd been talking about the events leading up to Sherlock's death. John had described the scene in the journalist's house, and meeting Rich Brook. He hadn't mentioned how scared Sherlock had looked afterwards. Not of Moriarty. Of John believing Moriarty.

_I'm a fake_.

"John?" Ella said. "Did you hear me? Every time you come in, you tell me what happened. You never say anything about how it affects you. I don't think we're breaking any ground here. Are you getting anything out of these sessions?"

He thought of lying, then decided against it.

"No," he admitted.

"Then why come?"

It wasn't a judgmental question. She really wanted to know.

"Gets me out of the flat," he said. He didn't elaborate, so Ella pressed.

"Why do you need out of the flat, John?"

John almost didn't answer. But he was here for a reason.

"I don't like sitting in there by myself. It's always too quiet. I feel like I'm waiting."

Ella understood. "For Sherlock?"

He nodded. "Every time I stay at home too long by myself, I end up expecting him to walk in any minute. And he doesn't."

Ella took some notes, then said, "John, have you considered moving?"

"No."

The words came out firm.

"It may help you to move on," Ella said.

"I'm not leaving Baker Street."

Ella let it be. The tone of John's voice told her arguing was useless.

"Well," she said, "You've opened up more in the past three minutes than you have in the past three weeks."

"I don't feel any better," John said.

"Well, you're going to have to open up more often, then. It'll take some time for things to feel normal again, John."

He didn't say it, but he didn't want normal.

Normal was the worst part of this.


	2. Dead

_Nine days_

Cold water. He couldn't afford to heat it.

A quick shower and then back to work.

His mind wandered too much in the shower. He started thinking of things he preferred not to.

_I owe you so much._

_No, you don't_.

Four days since his funeral. Nine since his death. He still couldn't forget the look on John's face.

It used to be so easy. Storing only what's necessary.

_This isn't helping anything. You had to. He'll understand that._

It wasn't a matter of John understanding later. It was a matter of John suffering now.

_Don't. _

People always accused him of not feeling anything, but he did. He always had. Maybe they weren't strong, and maybe he could dismiss them with ease, but emotions were less foreign to him than people thought.

_Be._

And now, an interesting paradox. On the one hand, he felt more than ever. Guilt and pain and anger and fear and just a hint of what he could only guess was self-loathing. That one was new.

On the other hand, he felt empty. So empty it _hurt_.

_Dead._

Sherlock turned the water off and stepped out, grabbing a towel. He glanced at himself in the mirror.

Then he looked again.

_I'm not dead. _

_Am I?_


	3. Text

_One hour_

_Sherlock's dead._

Mycroft read the text, but it didn't sink in for a good while. And when it finally did, he still felt the urge not to believe it. He wanted to believe this was John Watson's idea of getting him back, of showing what his carelessness could have caused.

But he knew the truth. That this was John's way of showing him what his carelessness had caused.

He set the phone down as a pit grew in his stomach. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They'd been a few harmless facts, a few meaningless stories. If he'd realized what those stories would do for James Moriarty, he never would have given them up. They wouldn't have been able to _make_ him give them up.

But John wouldn't see that. He'd see a man that put his own ambitions over his family, and Mycroft couldn't blame him. Because maybe it was true. Maybe if Mycroft had stopped and thought, maybe if he wasn't so hell-bent on getting what he wanted, then maybe he would have realized. Maybe he wouldn't have helped Moriarty's insane game. Maybe his little brother wouldn't be dead.

He texted back the only response he could think of, even though he knew it wouldn't be nearly enough.

_I'm so sorry, John._

A response never came.

Mycroft knew the conversation was over. And that it was probably the last conversation with John he'd ever have.


	4. Sleep

_Seventeen Hours_

Molly walked out of her bedroom and into her living room. She paused when she saw the figure lying on her couch.

She'd almost forgotten.

Having no place to go, Sherlock had requested use of Molly's flat for the few days it would take him to find a cheap flat of his own. Molly didn't object.

He'd asked her right after his fall. Fake blood stains and red-rimmed eyes and a tremor in his voice. The only thing she remembered thinking was that she'd never seen him so vulnerable before.

He looked vulnerable now, too. He slept with his legs pulled up almost to his chest, a blanket over the lower half of his body, and his hands tucked under his head. The clothes he wore-T-shirt and jeans Molly's brother had left at her flat on accident-looked unnatural on him. His brow was creased, and he wore a slight frown. Unpleasant dreams? Unpleasant reality, more like.

He'd been awake most of the night. She knew; she'd heard him tossing and turning as she too struggled to sleep. She would guess the only reason he slept now was because pure exhaustion had won out. That made sense. He didn't sleep much during cases, she knew, and the last few days-yesterday, especially-must have been Hell for him, even if he didn't show it.

She walked over and pulled the blanket up so that it completely covered him. He shifted and his frown grew. He muttered something she didn't quite catch. What she did catch was _John_.

He didn't wake up, and that was good. He needed to sleep. Molly decided to make coffee. Black, two sugars. Maybe that would cheer him when he eventually woke up.

When he did wake, she knew, he would greet her cordially. He would start pacing the apartment; he'd start making plans for where he should go, what he needed to do, how he would end this mess for good. He would be very much his usual self.

But for now, he was asleep on her couch, looking just about as troubled as someone can when they're asleep, and muttering something about John. John, his best friend, his only friend, really, and the man whose heart he'd just broken.

In the process, Molly knew, he'd broken his own heart.

And Sherlock could act like nothing had changed, but Molly knew this next case would be the hardest one he'd ever work on.

* * *

><p><strong>Inspired by a post on Tumblr. This is my take on the morning after Reichenbach.<strong>


	5. Confrontation

_Eight Months_

"Is that who I think it is?"

John turned around, following Harry's gaze. He saw immediately who she was looking at.

"Yes," he said, turning back around. "It is."

At the other end of the café, Kitty Riley sat with a cup of coffee and a half-eaten sandwich. She seemed busy scribbling on a pad of paper.

"Harry, don't stare," John said.

Harry's eyes moved to John. "Are you going to say anything?"

"Why would I?" John picked up his own sandwich and took a bite.

"Because you know you've been dying to ever since-"

She broke off as she saw her brother's expression.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "But you know it's true."

Being honest with himself, it was.

"I can't go around causing a scene," he said. "The last thing I need is to end up on the cover of The Sun."

"Defrauded detective's flat mate rampages on innocent reporter," Harry said with a smile.

"They'd probably throw something in about me being his heartbroken lover as well," John added.

"You're probably right," Harry said, picking up her cup of coffee. "Just remember you won't get this chance again."

She didn't say anything more, and after a few seconds John stood up and walked over to Kitty's table.

She recognized him. He could tell from her expression. Surprise. And fear?

"Dr. Watson," she said as he helped himself to the seat across from her. "I didn't expect to see you again."

"I suppose you hoped you wouldn't, anyway."

She tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

"Listen, she said, "I'm really sorry about what happened."

It might have been a nice sentiment, had John not known what she meant.

"Sherlock didn't lie to me."

Her look was sympathetic now. "I know you don't want to believe it, but-"

"Why'd you go through with it?"

She looked taken aback. "I'm sorry. I don't follow."

"A man killed himself because of your story. And you went through with printing it."

"Sherlock Holmes did not kill himself because of my story, Dr. Watson. He killed himself because of what was in the story. And people deserved to know the truth."

"Your article wasn't the truth," John said, shaking his head.

"Let it go," she said, crossing her arms and leaning back. "Your friend wasn't who you thought he was. People lie. People cheat. It happens. Why do you insist on defending him?"

"Because nobody else does," John said, his voice a lot more calm than he expected.

When Kitty didn't answer, he went on.

"And as hard as you tried to make it otherwise, Sherlock Holmes was not a tabloid headline, he was a man. A man with feelings, who was affected by stories like yours. And admittedly he didn't have many friends, but he had one, right here. And I won't stop believing in him; I won't stop _fighting_ for people to believe in him." He stood up then, and started to walk away. "You're welcome to put that in your next article."

Harry and he left then. Neither of them were finished eating, but they figured it was for the best.


	6. Web

_Three Days_

Sebastian Moran was used to moving about.

He went everywhere, wherever Jim needed him. He did jobs all over the world.

But now was strange. Different. He usually had orders. Today, he moved on instinct. He made the orders. There was no one left to give him orders anymore.

He remembered their last conversation. Hours before he carried out the plan. Right after debriefing the other snipers on whom they would kill if Sherlock Holmes refused to jump.

Seb had hung back as the others filed out.

"You didn't say who you wanted me to deal with," he'd said.

Jim had grinned. "I would've thought that's obvious, Seb."

True enough.

"I'll take Watson."

He'd started to leave when Jim grabbed his arm and leaned in to talk in his ear.

"You know you've always been my favorite. Right, Seb?"

It was true that Seb seemed to be taken into his Boss' confidence more often than anyone else. And he seemed to be the only constant factor in Jim's network. He nodded.

Jim released his arm and took a step back to look at Seb.

"If I don't come back," he said, "You're in charge."

His tone of voice had changed completely from the teasing one he'd had a second earlier, as it often did. But this time, coupled with the statement he'd just made, it made Seb's head begin to spin.

Serious. He was serious? The whole network…what did he mean, not coming back?

"Don't say that, Boss," Seb had said. "You'll come back. You're not going to let Holmes beat you, are you?"

Anyone but Seb would have paid for the small jab. But as it was, Jim just began to grin again.

"Exactly, Seb," he'd said. "Exactly."

And there the conversation ended, and Seb never spoke to Jim again.

Seb had known. He'd known right then.

He didn't try to talk Jim out of whatever he was planning. You could never talk the boss out of something once he set his mind to doing it. He expected the news that came later that day. He'd anticipated both deaths.

But anticipation doesn't always prepare you. There was no preparing for losing Jim.

And damn it, he hadn't expected to miss the bastard.

Now, three days later, Seb sat on a plane bound for the Czech Republic.

He had a whole criminal web at his fingertips. Ready for his command.

But first, he had a lot to sort out. With the web and with himself.

So for now, it seemed best to disappear.


	7. Strong

_Three Days_

When Mycroft was seven or eight years old, he fell out of a tree he was climbing and broke his wrist. In the end, it wasn't the injury that Mycroft remembered, for that was quickly remedied with a cast and some mild painkillers. What he remembers most about the day is what his mother said to him while on the way to the hospital.

He'd been crying softly in the back seat. Mycroft didn't often cry, but his wrist hurt terribly, and it was hard to avoid moving it. After a few minutes of this, his mother spoke from the front seat.

"Now, Mycroft. You're far too old to be crying like that."

Mycroft had only sniffled, embarrassed.

"You're a big brother, now, remember? You have to give a good example for Sherlock. I know it may not seem important now, but there might come a day when Sherlock needs you to be strong."

Mycroft had nodded, taking the words to heart. He wanted to be a good big brother, after all.

When Sherlock was very young, being strong simply meant putting on a brave face. Whenever he scraped a knee, or if the two got lost exploring. He'd be the one to keep calm.

But as both boys grew older, things changed. Granted, neither had ever been very emotional children, but they'd always seemed to understand each other. Now, as Mycroft's intelligence grew, so did his ambitions. He needed to work, to be serious. He didn't have time for childish games anymore.

By the time he realized Sherlock and he were drifting apart, the ambition had taken over. As Sherlock began to resent Mycroft, Mycroft tried to justify his actions to himself. It was for the best, wasn't it? Wasn't this staying strong? Mycroft was going places. Sherlock could learn from example and follow him.

But he didn't.

Sherlock was six when he first told Mycroft he hated him.

And as Sherlock continued to grow, skipping school, failing classes, and experimenting with drugs, he spiraled farther and farther away from the path that Mycroft walked.

Mycroft didn't know what to do with him.

By the time both of them were grown, there was a rift between them. And there was nothing Mycroft could do to fix it.

It hurt, but Mycroft would never show that.

So he tried to help from afar, tried to watch over Sherlock from a distance, because Sherlock would never accept the help outright. It seemed to work just fine that way.

That is, until James Moriarty.

Late at night, three days after his little brother's death, Mycroft sat in his home, thinking about his broken wrist.

There would come a day, his mother had said, when Sherlock would need him to be strong.

He'd been preparing for that day his whole life.

He'd missed it.

When Moriarty tempted him, when Sherlock needed him to be strong more than ever before, he'd made the weakest decision he'd ever made.

And so, sitting alone, he cried that night for the first time since he was the little boy with the broken wrist.

He had no one left to be strong for.


End file.
